The Babbling Gossip of the Air
by MissTempleton
Summary: There's a new radio star in Melbourne, but stardom seems to have unexpected consequences. The next in the "Twelfth Night" series.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"And that was Fats Waller with _Ain't Misbehavin'_ , which means it must be time for 3SK's weekly visit to the police station. Here to give us the low down on the lowdowns and just how they've been misbehaving is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson. Good evening, Inspector."

"Good evening, Vernon, thank you for inviting me along."

"We're delighted to help in any way we can, Inspector. What have you got for us this week?"

"First, I must thank your listeners for their assistance over the assault outside the teashop in Lonsdale Street that we mentioned last week. Three separate witnesses came forward who recalled seeing someone of the description of our suspect in the area, and after some identity checks, we now have a man behind bars, awaiting trial."

"That's excellent news for the peaceable citizens of our great city, Inspector. But I hear we've had a robbery?"

"We have, Vernon, and a very brazen one. A gentleman of slight build, medium height and fair hair, came to the door of a property in St Kilda last Thursday afternoon. He wore a brown overall and a tweed cap, and claimed to be from the Electricity Board. He asked the householder to show him the fuse box, and then said he would go upstairs and try several light switches; he asked the householder to let him know if there were any sparks in the fusebox. Needless to say, the only sparks flew after the thief had left with all the valuables he'd found in the upstairs rooms."

"That's quite some brass neck, Inspector. What would you ask our listeners to do?"

"Firstly, we've asked the Electricity Board to make sure all their representative are carrying identification when they come to a private house, and they've agreed to do that, so please ask to see proof that a caller is who they say they are when they turn up at your door, especially if you weren't expecting them. Second, if your caller doesn't have identification, close the door on them and telephone the police – even if the caller doesn't match the description I gave out."

"Okay, Inspector, but just in case – you said medium height, fair hair …?"

"And slight build, yes."

"Then you know the routine, listeners – if you can offer any assistance to Inspector Robinson and his men, please get in touch either with Russell Street or your own local police station. Thank you, Inspector, and let's hope we can help make Melbourne a safer city!"

"That's the plan, Vernon – and thank you, and your listeners, for all your attention."

"Now let's hear from Ethel Waters – this is _Sweet Georgia Brown._ "

Vernon Bushby placed the needle on the record, flicked the microphone off and sat back.

"Thanks, Jack. So you got the guy? That's great news."

Jack Robinson nodded. "It was a perfect fit with this slot, Vernon – we were pretty sure we knew who it was, but couldn't place him at the scene at the time. The Chief Commissioner's a bit unsure about this approach to crime fighting, but I've been trying to get him to see that we can prevent as much as we solve this way. If that jewel thief's prevented from committing another crime, we'll already have done a good job."

"I have to say, Jack, it helps that you cope with the microphone. So many people start to stutter and cough when they're faced with a red light and a live mic." Vernon grinned. "If it ever doesn't work out in the police force, you could always have a career in radio."

Jack grinned back. "You don't need to worry, Vernon – I'm pretty happy where I am."

He shrugged his coat on, slouched the trilby onto his head, and made his way to the front door of the studio. Yes, he thought, really quite happy. This experiment in public broadcasting had started well – if he was honest, he had to admit he was quite enjoying being allowed to be himself on radio, instead of the very uncomfortable cover story he'd had to wear last time he'd ventured on to the airwaves.

As he descended the steps, he saw a red Hispano-Suiza pulled up by the kerb, and recalled another reason to be happy. Getting in to the passenger seat, he turned to meet the glance of the driver.

"Miss Fisher."

"Inspector. How's my radio star?"

"Hungry. What's Mr B got for supper?"

"Fish pie, Inspector, and he's been experimenting with something called crème brulée – it's a recipe my mother sent him that seems to involve burning custard, but he promises it's very exciting."

"Then drive on, Miss Fisher, and don't spare the horsepower."

Miss Fisher was rarely in the habit of sparing the horsepower – what was horsepower for, after all? – and the Hispano left a noisy wake.

Neither sleuth took any notice of the shadowy figure which emerged from the doorway opposite the studio, and stood in the centre of the road, watching their tail lights recede into the gathering dusk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

"Morning Collins."

"Inspector, er, there's a delivery for you from Russell Street."

"Thank you, Collins, just put in on my desk."

"Well, er …"

Jack stopped and fixed Senior Constable Collins with a quizzical gaze, which quickly became a resigned one. Collins was conscientious, but hated to be the bearer of bad news. He was clearly labouring under some right now.

"It's … it's about the radio show, sir."

Jack pursed his lips in frustration.

"In that case, it should have stayed in Russell St, Collins – they're the ones dealing with the public on that."

"No – I mean yes, sir, they are – but, sir, I don't think this delivery is about the crimes, precisely, sir."

Deciding it would be easier to deal with the post than with Hugh Collins' embarrassment, Jack simply thanked him, walked into his office and shut the door.

On his desk was a parcel.

Opening it, he found it to be full of envelopes. Most were in the usual buff or plain white, but there was the occasional pastel-coloured offering.

They were all addressed, with varying degrees of spelling accuracy, to him personally. They had all been opened by Russell St, which meant the contents had been perused, then rejected for the purposes of the detection of crime.

He held the package up to his nose, and winced at the slightly sickly combination of scents which was evidenced in that very confined space.

He hastily closed the package again, folded over the top of it and placed it on top of the filing cabinet in the furthest corner of his office.

The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, Detective, had not looked with more apprehension at a spider in a jar than Detective Inspector Jack Robinson did at that package. However, he very tersely opened the door, barked a request for coffee, and proceeded in an orderly fashion to get on with The Day Job. He didn't glance at the package in the corner more than once or twice (well, twenty-three times, but no-one was counting) and it definitely wasn't glowing at him in fuschia pink every time he walked past it.

Mid-morning, the door to his office swung wide, and Miss Fisher sashayed in, striding across the room to perch on the corner of his desk.

"Hello, Jack, My God!" she exclaimed.

He gave her a withering look.

"I know you admire me, Miss Fisher, but that degree of adoration might cause ructions with your assistant and my constable."

"Jack, what on earth is that smell? It's like a bordello in here! Have you been interviewing strippers again?"

Instead of the brush-off she expected, he shifted uneasily in his chair.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Jack, you can't pretend not to be aware of the unhappy mix of Chanel and Shalimar that's currently inhabiting your office. Would you like me to open a window?"

He sullenly walked to the window and opened it. When he turned back, she was already doing her bloodhound impersonation. It didn't take long.

"Jack, what in heavens' name have you got here?"

"Miss Fisher – Phryne – it's addressed to me, I think you'll find."

"And as your wife, I think it's important I examine it closely." Then the contents of the package were spread over his desk. He remained leaning against the wall by the window, gratefully breathing the relatively fresh air of Bank St and covering his eyes with his hand.

" _Dear Inspector Robinson, I am writing to ask if I can please help with your police enquiries, I think I would be very good at it, perhaps you need a secretary or something …_ Jack, have you been advertising for a secretary? I must have missed that.

" _Dear Detective Inspector, I am writing to say I think you are very clever,_ \- well, we all knew that, didn't we?

" _Dear Inspector Jack, we_ – we? A collaborative effort? – _we think you sound just lovely on the radio and me and Ethel want you to come and have a picnic before your show_ ….

She put all the letters she was holding down on the desk and regarded him with unholy glee.

"Detective Inspector Robinson, you've got _fans_!"

The Inspector's demeanour was stony.

"It's no laughing matter, Miss Fisher. How on earth are we supposed to respond? I'm a policeman, not … not a ladies' man!"

She bit both lips at once, trying to contain her mirth. "Now, on that, Mr Robinson, I have to disagree. You've proved extremely proficient as far as this lady's concerned. Don't do yourself down."

Seeing he was genuinely worried, she relented.

"Jack, calm down. If only we'd thought, we should have expected it. You're good at this radio thing, and it's already getting results. Just think of this as … collateral damage."

"But what on earth do I _do_ about all these letters?"

Phryne grinned. "As to that, Inspector, I think I have the perfect consultant for City South to employ. She won't even need an office, and you can pay her on a piecework basis."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

"But Miss, whatever am I supposed to do?"

"Oh, Dot, don't worry about it. Read the letters, write a reply. You'll probably be able to say the same things lots of times – we'll just come up with a sentence or two about how the Inspector is unable to enter into personal correspondence, but is grateful for their interest in the broadcasts. You could even sign them yourself, in your maiden name – have a Professional Persona just like I do. What do you think?"

Dot looked longingly at the pile of letters. Being the Agony Aunt of a ladies' magazine had been an enormous challenge, but at least these letters seemed to come from people who weren't actually facing major life challenges. And apart from cross-examining her own home help in relation to a murder investigation, it had been months since she had really used her mind for anything other than planning meals, shopping or laundry, and she desperately wanted to make good on Hugh's promise that she could go straight back to work for Miss Fisher as soon as she was ready.

"All right, Miss," she said resolutely. "I'll do it. I want to get better with a typewriter anyway. Did you know that you can often tell which typewriter someone uses, by the tiny differences in the angle of the letters and gaps in the typeface? I was reading about it in a book that the Inspector lent Hugh."

Phryne confirmed that she didn't, but once again silently congratulated all the Powers that Be, jointly and severally, for bringing her the most naturally-gifted assistant a lady detective could wish for.

Together, and at Dot's insistence, they sat to open a few.

Phryne's smile widened with every new appreciation she read of the man she was seriously considering spending the rest of her life with. It appeared he did indeed possess a good Microphone Voice. It was perhaps too good for Angie in South Melbourne's pelvic control, and she arrived at a quick conclusion.

"Dot, we're going to start a pile here for the ones that won't get a reply."

"Oh, Miss, surely we can't ignore them? What would the Inspector think?"

Wordlessly, Phryne handed across the latest missive, and watched Dot scan it. The moment she reached the operative phrase was plain to see, and the resolute manner in which she started a new pile was its own explanation.

As they got to the bottom of the pile, they noticed that an increasing number hadn't been opened at all – clearly the bored constable whose job it was to go through the mail had decided he had better things to do, and was sufficiently adept at sorting the wheat from the chaff. Before long, though, they'd reached the end, and concluded a strategy. There was the pile that would need the "thank you for your interest" reply; the two or three that had been missed, and would be sent back to Russell Street as actually containing useful information; and the group of what Phryne termed Imaginative and Dot termed Indecent. Dot was all for throwing them straight on the fire, but Phryne suggested they have their own special box, as there would doubtless be more.

"Don't worry, Dot, I'll keep it at my house – you don't need something so incendiary on your premises, and something tells me it might be a good idea to have the evidence in case our Inspector comes up against some opposition for his latest inspiration."

Dot shook her head. "I still think we should burn them, Miss, but I'm sure you know best."

"I'm sure I do too, Dot," replied Phryne confidently. "Cheerio! Kiss the babies for me!"

Dorothy did so, despite knowing full well that baby-kissing was somewhere behind Holy Confession on her employer's list of priorities.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

How typical, thought Jack, that on the day he had to try to bring a killing to live radio, it was pouring with rain. He shed his hat and coat, trying to find a place to hang them that wouldn't drench the other garments hanging there, and quickly gave up. The Melbourne Mist had been heavy all day.

Jogging up the stairs to the studio, he hovered outside, waiting for Vernon to cue a song. As soon as the needle was on the record and a beckoning finger raised, he opened the studio door.

"Filthy night."

"Filthy day, Jack – who'd live in this place, eh?"

"Well, one less person than we had on Monday. I've got two things I could do tonight, Vernon – another robbery, or a probably-not-very-suspicious death. What do you want to go with?"

Bushby sat back in his chair for a moment, considering. They were doing well with what had been a "cosy" slot, and the sponsors had been delighted with the steady rise in listener numbers among Solid Citizens of Melbourne. However, he'd been born and bred a newsman.

"This is going to sound crazy, but how mildly can you play the death?"

"Vern, it's a jumper – or faller – in a man who had no family, and many reasons to feel down. I want to put out a feeler to see if there's more to it than suicide – and it might still be just that, but I've got a gut feeling."

Bushby nodded. "Okay. In that case, you're going on three minutes later, because I'm not going to cue your story after "Ain't Misbehavin'"

Jack chewed his lip, and allowed the broadcaster to be the expert.

"In just a few minutes, we're going to be heading down to the police station, but while we stumble along through the rain, we'll listen to one more number, a 1929 hit – this is Willie Creager and his orchestra giving their own inimitable take on "You were Meant for Me."

Bushby shuffled his notes and hummed along with the tune. "You're like a plain-tive mel-o-deeee" he warbled, in a broad approximation of the composer's intention. Jack didn't bat an eyelid, but began marshalling his thoughts slightly differently.

"That was Willie Creager with "You were Meant for Me" and it's time for our posting from the police station. Here to share it is Detective Inspector Jack Robinson – Inspector, what's been happening this week?"

Inwardly, Jack cursed him for so smoothly introducing the subject; and reminded himself that facing the Chief Commissioner to explain Phryne's latest exploit was far worse.

"It's a tricky one tonight, Vernon, because we have a very sad case of a gentleman who died, and it might simply have been an accident. Our difficulty is that were no witnesses at the time, that we've yet uncovered."

"Forgive me, Inspector, but you can surely tell how he died?"

"Of course, and I'm sure you understand how sensitive this is – the last thing we would normally do is speak about the loss of one of our citizens on the radio. In this case, though, is the means of his death. He was found on the pavement in St Vincent Place early on Tuesday morning, having clearly fallen from a considerable height. Now, sometimes this would lead us to suspect suicide, but it's rare for someone to take their own life without leaving a reason why – and as yet, we've found no explanation left by the victim. And I must apologise again at this stage, Vern – I realise this is painful for your listeners to hear."

"Inspector, I don't think there's a single person out there who doesn't realise what a tough job it is that our Melbourne police force has to do," said Bushby in honeyed tones. Jack shot him a dagger look, and got raised eyebrows _it's my job_ in response.

"Can you tell us anything more about the circumstances?"

"There's very little to go on, and we are asking if anyone among your listeners happened to be in the area between midnight and dawn on Tuesday morning. We're very much hoping that we can confirm the circumstances of his death, and this is an extraordinary situation where the Melbourne community may be able to help us lay this gentleman's case to rest."

"I'm sure we're all eager to do what we can, Inspector."

"If someone has information which needs to be given in confidence, that's not a problem, just ring the station and pass on what you know."

He narrowed his eyes at Bushby. _Don't you dare cap this_.

"There is every likelihood that we're looking at a tragic circumstance of a man choosing, for whatever reason, to take his own life. If that's not the case, we would be grateful for any information your listeners can offer."

"Inspector, I think I can speak for every one of us listening when I say that we want to help the victim rest in peace, and anything we can do, we will."

"We will be very grateful, Vernon, thank you."

"And while you're thinking back to Monday night and Tuesday morning, here's some classical music to take us there – the 5th Symphony of Tchaikovsky, in its slow movement, with that beautiful horn solo."

Bushby put the needle on the record and flicked the switch.

"Jack, you have to be kidding. You just put out a call on air to say a death might not have been a suicide? And on top of that, you're saying you want any man-jack out there with a theory to come forward?"

Jack hunched his shoulders and leaned on the table.

"Okay, I should perhaps have told you more, Vern, and I'm sorry. But I didn't want to go on air with you trying to lead me a different way. It would quite possibly have put you in danger, and I couldn't risk that."

Bushby was all ears.

"We're pretty confident this is a feud. We know who the victim was – and no, I'm not going to give you his name, but suffice to say he wasn't likely to take his own life. So, we needed to put out the call in a way that showed we knew – and hopefully, that's what we've done now."

Jack met Bushby's look.

"If you want to stop this exercise now, I'll understand, because I've just used you, Vern, in a way you didn't agree to."

Bushby laughed. "Jack, if you think that you can scare a journo with a bit of gangland angst, you've got the wrong guy. What you just did feels like the longest of long shots, but if you land something from that, our sponsors will be ecstatic."

He tilted his head consideringly.

"By the same token, if it doesn't work, I hope you have an alternative career mapped out, because I understand the Chief Commissioner wasn't too sold on the whole broadcast idea in the first place."

Jack gave a twisted smile.

"I haven't, no. And in fact, gainful employment is probably more important to me than it used to be. So let's hope the venture works, shall we?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Jack made his way back down the stairs, and gingerly put his raincoat back on – or rather, wrapped himself in a damp cloth. He hunted for his hat. Then looked around. Then hunted some more. Then let go a very quiet curse. Someone had clearly come without a hat to the studio that morning, and decided to leave with his rather than walk out bareheaded into the pouring rain.

He opened the door and peered out. Why was there never a lady detective with a red Hispano around when you needed one? With a deep sigh, he turned up his collar and started the trek towards the bright lights of Dandenong Road.

A few paces ahead of him, someone came out of a doorway and put up a capacious umbrella. Trying not to be envious, he kept pacing steadily; and the other pedestrian, apparently hearing his footsteps above the noise of the rain, turned to glance back.

And called to him.

"Want to share an umbrella? Great weather for ducks but it makes a girl want to look for ark-builders."

He breathed a laugh and jogged to catch up.

"Thanks. Someone borrowed my hat, and my lift hasn't turned up."

"Bad luck comes in threes, right? That must mean there's something else waiting for you."

He smiled. "As long as it's the kind of bad luck that comes in warm, dry form I'll be fine."

His saviour – hard to see in the shade of the umbrella, but definitely female and with a high, slightly nasal tone – laughed at that.

"Best try to find a place to shelter, then. I'm going for a coffee – you're welcome to join me?"

He gave a quick, slightly arrested smile. Not since a cocaine-based crime with Turkish overtones had he been on the receiving end of such a forceful new female.

His companion realised his discomfiture, and grinned.

"Sorry, I can be a bit forthright. I'm Liv. You?"

"Jack. And …" he saw a car turn the corner, "I think I see my very belated lift home arriving now."

He stepped out into the road and waved and arm.

"Can we give you a lift to the café?"

Her face was once more hidden beneath the umbrella, so he could only listen for her response.

"Nah, I'm fine, thanks. 'Night."

She strode on into the darkness, and Jack looked both ways before sprinting across the road to the car.

"New friend, Jack?"

"Saviour, more like. I used to have a rather treasured brown felt trilby, given to me by a rather lovely lady detective, which would have been useful when I left the studio. Unfortunately, someone else found it useful first."

"Jack, I gave you that hat. I can't believe you lent it out."

"I didn't have a choice. Luckily, Liv was going my way and had an umbrella."

"Liv?" A curious glance.

"All I know, and all I'm ever likely to know! If you hadn't aquaplaned round the corner, Mrs Robinson, we might have been having coffee and I'd have known more."

"Where, Jack?"

"What do you mean, where?"

"I mean, tell me where you'd have found a cup of coffee at this time of night in this part of town."

Silence. He looked over his shoulder, as though the miles they'd covered would magically vanish and he'd see the person with the umbrella walking into a lit building.

He couldn't see her, of course. That was because she was too far away, at home, shaking out her umbrella, and placing it neatly in the hall stand.

Underneath the row of hooks, holding a couple of raincoats and a brown felt trilby.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

As usual, he heard her before he saw her. A blithe greeting to his Senior Constable – why did she ever bother asking if The Inspector Was In when she was bound to swan into his office no matter what the reply?

He had a go at adopting a stern expression, but judging by the gurgle of laughter she gave as she leaned down to kiss him before hopping up on to the corner of his desk, it hadn't worked very well. Had he but known it, the warmth in his eyes was a dead giveaway.

"Hello, Jack."

"Miss Fisher."

She grinned. "I think it can be Mrs Robinson for the next hour or so. I've decided to let you take me for lunch."

"I can't just drop everything at a moment's notice, you know," he said severely. "There are people who rely on me."

"I'm not asking you to drop anything," she demurred. "Well, not at the moment, anyway. That can wait till we get home." He rolled his eyes. "But I do want to know more about this dead body you were talking about on the radio last night."

"Phryne, you are _not_ getting involved in that."

"I didn't say I was getting involved, I'm just curious. And you can assuage my curiosity over some fish and a glass of wine."

He knew perfectly well that it wouldn't end there, but recognised the inevitability of lunch, and started resignedly piling together the papers that, to be perfectly honest, were neither interesting nor urgent.

"Also, I have a present for you." With a flourish, she produced a cardboard box marked _Buzolich_ _Hatters_ and drew out a brand new, brown felt trilby.

"See you take better care of this one, Mr Robinson," she said sternly as she placed it on his head at a jaunty angle and smoothed down the brim.

Expressing suitable gratitude took a few minutes, and she had to reapply her lipstick afterwards, but his mother had brought him up always to say thank you for a present.

Once they were ensconced with _branzino_ and a bottle of _Gavi_ , he knew there would be no escaping the cross-examination.

"Come on, then, Jack – who was it?"

"We didn't say who it was."

She shrugged. "I know _that_ , but you do know, don't you? Otherwise you'd have said you didn't."

He thanked his stars the general listening public of 3SK didn't have his wife's deductive skills.

"Name of Duke. Orrie Duke. Leading light of the trucking community. And therein lies the problem." Having gone this far, he thought he might as well share the rest. "There's an ongoing feud between the wharfies and the truckers, and we think it's just turned nasty."

"So nasty someone gets killed? What on earth is the feud about?"

"What's it ever about? Turf. Wharfies straying into the truckers' territory, shifting stuff around the docks. Truckers retaliate by nobbling the wharfies' transport. And so it goes on."

"Still seems a bit extreme to be sending Orrie Duke for a 'dying fall' though."

"We're assuming it was an argument that got out of hand rather than premeditated murder, but until we can find an eyewitness, it's mostly supposition. Hence the signal we sent in the radio broadcast – we want the wharfies to know we're suspicious, and we'd love to lay our hands on a witness."

"Want me to ask Bert and Cec to put out feelers?"

"The red raggers? Come on, Phryne, they're wharfies up to their eyeballs. There's no way they'd squeal on a mate even if they did find anything out."

"You're assuming that it was a wharfie did it, Jack – it might still not have been."

He sat back and looked at her over his glass of wine, then turned and signalled for the bill. "Whatever happened to "I'm not going to get involved?" Miss Fisher?"

"Oh come on, Jack, you didn't honestly think I'd stay out of it, did you?" she laughed.

She was still laughing as they walked out the door of the restaurant, dragging him by the hand. He decided to teach her a lesson, and stopped suddenly – then pulled on her arm to spin her back into his arms, ballroom-style, for a quick kiss. As she landed at his shoulder and their lips met, he heard a slight whistle, and a crack. Instinct kicked in, and he pulled her back into the doorway.

"Gunshot?" she asked tersely. He nodded, and peered gingerly around the edge of the doorway while she scanned the woodwork beside them. Next thing he knew, she'd stalked past him, revolver in hand. Of course. Why on earth would she take shelter and wait for the danger to clear, like a normal person?

"Phryne!" he hissed. She glanced back at him.

"The bullet's buried to the left of the door, so the gunman should be over there somewhere," she muttered. Resigned, he followed after her, but although they moved swiftly, there was no sign of their attacker. A couple at the far end of the street, and a young woman gazing into a shop window were the only other people around. Phryne scanned the first floor windows, but there was no sign of movement.

She tutted in frustration.

"Oh well, I'd say that was proof positive that you're on the right lines with Orrie Duke's death, Jack." She turned to look at him, and groaned. "I don't believe it!"

Whipping the hat from his head, she showed him a scorched score mark along the side of the crown.

"Jack Robinson, you've had that hat for less than two hours! I can see that keeping you in headwear is going to ruin me."

"Sorry, Mrs Robinson," he said meekly. "On the bright side, it missed my head."

She pouted, but grudgingly agreed that his dance moves had, in this instance, possibly saved him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

The following morning, Phryne was taking a relaxed attitude to starting the day (well, second time around – Jack's approach to starting the day had been more vigorous in several respects, she recalled happily). Reclining in bed in her boudoir with coffee and some tiny but delicious pastries, she was surveying the morning post and trying to decide whether she was sufficiently interested in a vanished Lalique vase, photograph album or aunt (she'd never liked Lalique much, but she was reasonably fond of her own aunt most of the time, and had high hopes of the photograph album) to take on the commissions, when Mr Butler tapped on the door.

"Mrs Collins to see you, Miss."

"Bring her in and provide a cup of tea, Mr B. Dot! Lovely to see you, how are you getting on with the Inspector's correspondence?"

"Morning Miss. It's that I was wanting to see you about, actually." Dot was clearly upset, and Phryne set everything to one side and patted the mattress beside her. Her assistant had become remarkably resilient since coming to work for her all those months ago, and for Dorothy to be so woebegone there must be Something Up.

"What is it, Dot. Has one of the Inspector's fans become a bit too biblical?"

"Oh no, Miss, nothing like that. Well, a bit. Miss, do you still have the other letters that you took away with you?"

Phryne was alert. "Yes, Dot, they're in the bottom of the wardrobe. I thought about putting them in my underwear drawer but decided they were a bit too incendiary, and I'm fond of my smalls."

Gathering her robe more firmly about her, she hopped out of bed and retrieved the envelope.

"Anything in particular you're after?"

"Yes, Miss. Wasn't there one in a yellow envelope? Canary yellow? I think I'd like to have another look. Because … this one was in the latest batch."

She handed over a yellow envelope with a hand that was equally as shaky as her voice. Phryne studied her face closely, and then opened the letter. Neither Boswell nor Johnson had any competition from this author.

 _Get rid of the whore._

"Succinct," remarked Phryne. "That's the reward for failing to notify the press of your nuptials, I gather – I can only assume they mean me. I take it this hadn't been opened by Russell Street?"

"No, Miss. There was only one which had been, and all the ones they sent were fan letters – they're getting better at sorting them, I think." Dot's voice was a little gruff, and Phryne glanced up at her, to see reddened eyes. Casting the letter aside, she gathered her assistant in an energetic hug.

"Darling Dorothy, don't let it upset you. This isn't a fan letter, this is a mad person finding an outlet for madness. If it hadn't been the Inspector, it might have been the Mayor, or the man who delivers the milk. I'm just sorry you had to find it – and so very pleased that you had the thought of looking for the other letter. Here, have my hanky, and then we'll both look."

After a good blow of her nose, and a sip from the sustaining cup of tea that Mr Butler had brought, Dot pronounced herself Much Better and they delved into the package of letters together. The envelope in question was swiftly found, and Phryne commandeered it, instructing her assistant to Have More Tea, Dot.

"Hmm. Same paper, good quality. Not scented like the others. No return address, of course. What does it say?

 _You're going to be mine._

Good handwriting – not the usual block capitals of the poison pen letter writer." She laid the letter down and looked at Dot.

"Miss, are you going to tell the Inspector?"

Phryne pursed her lips. "Not yet, Dot," she decided. "It's not as though these letters are being hand delivered to Russell St, so there's nothing they can do differently. I think the first thing we do is try to track down the paper – it is quite unusual. How long have you got before you have to go back to your babies?"

"Ages, Miss. Miss Stubbs has taken them out for the day." Once again, Phryne blessed the good fortune that had thrown the angelic Evangeline Stubbs in their path; Dorothy's life had been transformed by the help with her twin babies, and Phryne had her assistant back, at least part of the time.

"In that case, Dot, that's your job. Leave the letters but take one of the matching envelopes and see if you can find the stationer that supplies them." She flung the covers aside. "And if you could lay me out the jade velvet and associated accoutrements, you'd be an angel. I have a charity lunch at Aunt Pru's. I'm off for a bath, and then I need a word with Bert and Cec."

Her two tame cabbies were dutifully waiting at the kitchen table nursing mugs of tea when she came downstairs.

She sat down the end of the table and fixed them with a cool gaze.

"I have a job for you two, and I can tell you two things at the outset – you won't like it, and you're going to have to do it anyway."

They exchanged glances, and Bert spoke up.

"It's not as though it'll be the first time, Miss Fisher. What's the job?"

"Orrie Duke," said Phryne flatly. The air definitely became a degree or two chillier, but she ploughed on.

"All the Inspector needs to know is whether he was on his own at the time of his death. There could be any number of reasons why he had that fall, and I'm prepared to believe that quite a lot of them are innocent, but if this thing isn't going to get out of hand, the Inspector needs to know what happened. By all means present me as the primary agent if it makes the task easier.

"And on the subject of the Inspector – someone took a pot-shot at us yesterday. You'll understand that, much as I applaud the finessing of firearms skills through practice, I resent being used as a target; and I want to make it quite clear that if Jack Robinson is hurt as a result of the current investigation into Duke's death, the person harming him will wish they had never been born. My Sinophile tendencies have been finessed in the art of making someone's life so unpleasant that the alternative is preferable."

Two former wharfie cab drivers were remarkably efficiently no longer in the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Phryne understood the need for Good Works. She really did. But when she would rather having been riding shotgun on Bert and Cec, or dividing up the stationers with Dot to get to the answer at the speed her patience (or lack of it) demanded, being required to smile politely at the ladies of Toorak and agree that the garden was looking simply _stunning_ while limiting herself to a single cocktail was perhaps pushing her love for Aunt Prudence a little further than it would usually stretch.

As soon as she could reasonably leave, she took the Hispano back to St Kilda at a speed that Jack would have described as Reckless and she knew for a fact was both Appropriate and Entirely Safe. She arrived home to find a message to telephone Dot, and a small assembly of sullen gentlemen in the kitchen. Bert and Cec were flanking a swarthy man in a threadbare coat, and Mr Butler was making himself busy cleaning spoons in a small space that mostly seemed to consist of the few square feet by the kitchen door. He probably liked it there, and wasn't at all worried about the new guest doing a runner.

No-one was drinking the tea.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. And this is?"

"John Smith, Miss Fisher."

"Of course it is. And what do you have to tell us, Mr Smith?"

The swarthy man gave her a belligerent look. "John Smith's my name, wha's wrong with that? And I'm only here 'cos Bert says if I don't tell you about Orrie's fall, there's big trouble for the wharfies _and_ the truckers. Which in't right, to my mind."

"There is much injustice in the world, Mr Smith, on that we are agreed," Phryne confirmed. "And the fact that you described it as a fall suggests that my original notion was the correct one. An argument, perhaps between two truckers, with unfortunate consequences?"

"Too right," said Smith, still by equal degrees sulky and suspicious.

"Tell her, John," urged Cec gently. "She'll get it out of you in the end, you might as well make it easy."

Smith surveyed the assembled company with a jaundiced eye and resigned himself to being as maltreated as he always was.

"We was just talkin'. Orrie's always been a firebrand, though – he was all set to torch one of the wharfies' trucks," (this saw a sucking in of air through Bert's teeth but a sharp glance from Phryne had the poker face reassumed), "and I said it was too much. Then we had a bit of a blue."

He looked up at Phryne with a pleading expression.

"You know what it's been like, Miss – boiling hot. You keep the windows closed in the day and open them at night, so we had those big old windows wide open. I had my back to them, and he took a swing at me, like – but he's not that nippy on his feet, and I ducked and he overbalanced and went straight over my shoulder 'n out the window."

The confession had clearly taxed Smith's eloquence to its limit, and he wound down abruptly. It was enough for Phryne, though.

"Show me your hands, Mr Smith?"

He did so.

"Abrasions to the knuckles, consistent with a fist fight. Very well. I will inform Inspector Robinson that he should present the coroner with a likely Accidental Death, and will support you in any representations you may be required to make. You may go."

Smith went – eagerly. Phryne instructed Bert and Cec to keep an eye on him to make sure they knew where to find him when the Inspector needed to pursue his enquiries, and went to telephone Dot, her brain working furiously.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

Dorothy couldn't keep a hint of triumph out of her tone. "I thought I would try the wholesalers first, to see if they could tell me who might sell that paper, and they told me straight away, Miss – it comes from Robertson's in Elizabeth Street, that's the only place that sells that colour. Now, they sell it to everyone of course, but they have one or two people who buy it regularly. Both ladies are regular customers, and they have billing addresses for them both,"

Phryne responded eagerly. "Something tells me, Dorothy, that I am only interested in one of these addresses?"

Dorothy was smiling.

"Well there's one that lives in Sunbury, Miss …"

"No, Dot, the other one."

"Oh, were you looking for the lady in Chapel Street, Miss Fisher?"

"Dorothy, unless you would like me to strangle you, tell me about the lady in Chapel Street who's in the habit of buying canary-yellow notepaper." A deep intake of patient breath. "Please."

"A Miss Olivia Rich." Dot read out the full address. "Isn't that near the radio station, Miss?

"Yes, Dot," Phryne said absently. All of a sudden, she recalled an image to mind. Jack, in the car on a rainy night.

" _Luckily, Liv was going my way and had an umbrella."_

She shivered involuntarily. "Dot, I think it's time I confessed to the Inspector. I'm off to City South and I'll ring you later on."

The Hispano-Suiza made short work of the journey, and Phryne hurried in to the station, finding Hugh Collins at his usual post on the front desk.

"Hello, Hugh, the Inspector in?" she asked, moving to open the partition door.

"No, Miss," the Constable replied. "He's been out most of the day, actually."

Phryne stopped and regarded him quizzically.

"Am I allowed to know where?"

"He got a message this morning to go down to the studio for a meeting, and he's not come back yet. Maybe they've had some news about that suspicious death."

Trying to ignore the pit forming in her stomach, Phryne snapped back, "Not suspicious at all, Hugh, it was a plain accident. What form did the message take?"

"A note came here, Miss. Hand delivered."

"Do you still have it?"

"Yes, Miss," he reached under the desk and leafed through a sheaf of papers. "Here we are."

As soon as she saw the canary-yellow envelope, she knew. Snatching it from him, she scanned the typewritten words.

"Hugh, the Inspector is in danger. Come on!" The words were flung over her shoulder as she ran to her car.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Jack came to slowly, conscious that his arms were aching. He tried to stretch them out, and discovered they were bound behind him. Recollection came back.

The studio mysteriously closed, and no meeting apparently expected to take place. The woman standing on her front step smoking a cigarette and asking for help with a jammed window in her first-floor apartment. The same woman he'd shared an umbrella with the other night. Liv. Throwing the window of her parlour wide, and turning to see her holding a perfume bottle in his face. A spray … then nothing.

"Oh good, you're awake," came the high, slightly nasal voice. He looked up at her, mystified.

"What – why – what am I doing here?"

"You live here now, Jack. This is your home. We're going to have tea soon." She stood looking at him and smiling.

"If I live here, why am I tied up?"

"Silly! I've got to keep you safe."

"Liv, I've got a job to do. I can't stay here." He tried to flex his wrists, to slacken the knots in the rope tying his hands, but they were tight. "People will come looking for me."

She frowned. "I hope that whore comes looking for you. I'm going to shoot her. I nearly managed it the other day, but she moved too quickly." She wagged a finger at him. "She's not good enough for you, Jack. You're so lucky you've got me now."

Realisation dawned.

"It was you. Outside the restaurant. You were standing looking in a shop window."

She nodded happily. "No-one ever realises that the best way to hide is to stand still, not run away. I knew you'd never guess."

The noise of a very familiar motor engine floated through the open window, and Jack did his best to show no reaction. How on earth could Phryne have found him so quickly? He hoped fervently that she would be careful.

 _Not the stairs, Phryne. Don't take the stairs. Find a way to take her by surprise._

Thinking fast, he said, "Liv, I've got a terrible thirst. Please, could I have something to drink? Even just water?"

She smiled at him warmly. "Of course, Jack, I bought some beer for you specially. I'll get you one."

She was only out of the room for a few seconds – not enough time to do more than glance at the window. No sign.

Liv returned to the room, pouring from a bottle into a glass as she walked. Holding the glass to his lips, she tilted it so that he could take a sip, then another.

"Is that better?"

"Much, thank you. I could drink the whole glass down, I think. You couldn't release one of my hands to let me hold on to it?"

"Naughty, Jack, of course not!" she giggled. With his gaze fixed on her face, he caught the slightest of movements in the window.

"Then I'll have some more, if I may," he begged. Obliging, she tipped the glass further for him. He took a longer drink, then leaned his head back, and smiled up at her.

"I have to say, that was so welcome, Liv, I could just kiss you for it."

"Then you shall do so, Jack dear." She leaned down to press her mouth to his. His stomach churned at the sensation, but he did his best to keep her interest.

A firm voice came from behind her.

"I think, Miss Rich, you will find that you are claiming a privilege reserved for the Inspector's wife, who lacks a sense of humour on the issue. You will now cease, put down the glass, and raise your hands. You'll find that I am far more accurate with my revolver than you were with yours."

Liv froze. She put the glass down and slowly turned round, to find Phryne Fisher standing next to the window and calmly pointing her pearl handled .38 at the other woman's head.

Phryne called out. "You can come in now, Hugh," and the door opened to let in the Constable.

"Cuff her, please, Hugh," she asked politely. As the constable complied, the woman began to let out a stream of invective so filthy that even Phryne raised her eyebrows. Once the prisoner was secured, Phryne tucked her pistol away and went to untie Jack.

"Darling, if I'd only known you wanted to be tied up and kissed I could have done it myself."

Collins went bright pink and tried to pretend he hadn't heard.


	11. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Phryne handed Jack his glass, and settled beside him on the couch with her own drink, her feet stretched out along it and her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. He stretched his arm along the seat back and drew idle whirls with his finger on her forearm.

"So, you've managed to get attempted murder as well as kidnap?"

"Yes. The bullet we dug out of the restaurant doorway matched her gun, and in any case, she'd admitted to me that she made the attempt."

Phryne sipped her drink and tipped her head back to look up at him. "That reminds me, I need to order you another hat from Mr Buzolich." He inclined his head in thanks.

"It seems a shame that they're shelving the radio slot, though," she remarked.

Jack shrugged the shoulder that didn't have a deliciously-scented head resting on it. "I couldn't really argue – the Chief pointed out that if we hadn't been doing the broadcast, the crime wouldn't have occurred."

"But you stopped and solved so many others thanks to that radio slot!" argued Phryne. "Couldn't they just put someone else on the job?"

"Such as?" asked Jack. "Rossiter?" They both laughed at the thought of the deadly-dull denizen of North Melbourne station attempting to garner popular support from the population of Melbourne. "Hugh Collins?"

"And have Dot deal with the kind of letters you were getting, addressed to her own husband? There aren't enough hours in the day for the Hail Marys that would trigger, Jack!" she chortled. "Anyway, Hugh doesn't have a voice like yours." She felt, rather than saw, the smirk that her observation prompted.

"Be honest, Jack – you did milk it, rather, didn't you?" she said.

Pretending to be affronted, he claimed not to have the slightest idea what she meant.

"Jack Robinson, you have a lovely deep voice – but I swear, when that red light went on, you took it down by almost an octave. It was doing the most extraordinary things to my insides to listen to you."

"Like this, you mean?" he muttered in her ear.

She wriggled slightly, and agreed that that was _exactly_ what she had in mind, and could he do it again now, please.


End file.
